


Long Love Rock: Act I

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Air Guitars, Chocolates, Gen, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-28
Updated: 2012-08-28
Packaged: 2017-11-13 01:54:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/498144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade thinks he’ll be spending this particular Valentine’s Day alone. But as fate would have it, he’s very, very wrong…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Love Rock: Act I

If there was an appropriate way to celebrate Valentine’s Day when you were single, Greg didn’t want to know what it was. He really couldn’t care less that his friends had better things to do than waste an evening hanging out with him; he wasn’t going to let a single second of that precious, chocolate-filled holiday go to waste.

Most of his co-workers checked out early. It was normal on the holidays. Some had last minute reservations to make, presents to buy — dinners to cook, if they’d miraculously managed to plan anything in advance. Most of them just wanted to get the hell out of the office. Only very lonely people and a few tossers were willing to run out the clock when they could be out with friends, loved ones — or drinking themselves under at a nearby pub. 

Greg didn’t have plans, and he didn’t feel guilty about it. Anderson had left around noon to go meet his wife — doom and gloom expression that he reserved solely for encounters with her cemented on his face. Sally had a dinner date — something she’d set up weeks in advance, and might have made a fuss about whenever Daniel was around. She had a good heart, Greg knew, but she was fiercely protective. And as it happened, sometimes that defensive nature translated to a few bitter remarks and jealousy. He didn’t fault her for it; they all had their flaws. 

It was Iain that surprised him. Promiscuous might not have been the right word — but the younger detective certainly had a different definition of self-restraint than Greg did. His poly-amorous dating habits put Dan and Sally’s affair in sharp perspective, and on more than one occasion, left Greg feeling his own bitter pangs of jealousy. Although Lestrade wasn’t the type to mourn his youth — hell, he was remarkably fit for a guy in his mid-forties — he’d have to have been a saint not to covet some of the faces Iain introduced them to on the week-ends. 

And frankly, he preferred the life of a sinner. There was more booze, and it meant he could shag other men, which he rather enjoyed. Maybe not as frequently as a certain dark-haired DI — but he somehow managed to keep himself entertained. 

Needless to say, he found it hard to believe when Iain said he was going stag on the most romantic holiday of the year. To be fair, ‘stag’ for Dimmock meant going out to a noisy bar with several of his most rambunctious, and atrociously good-looking friends. In fact, Greg could easily recall a time when the man couldn’t go a week without a date; so, there was honestly no way in hell he was going to make it through Valentine’s Day without a shag. Greg had actually staked ten quid on it when he’d relayed the news to Anderson — and, for whatever reason, the forensics investigator seemed strangely amused by that. He readily agreed to take Lestrade’s bet. Wary though he was, Greg wasn’t about to turn down free money. 

With a bounce in his step and an enormous box of assorted chocolates under his arm, he strolled out of the office just after seven. The candy had been a gift from the office secretaries; every Valentine’s Day, they bought him an increasingly larger box than the year before. Sally joked that they were obviously leading up to an opportunity to dip themselves in the stuff. One day, they’d show up on his doorstep — coated in chocolate and wearing nothing but bright red ribbons. For some reason, Sally always seemed surprised when Greg didn’t find her theory even half as amusing as she, Dan and Iain did. 

He cranked up the volume of the car stereo and pushed all work-related thoughts out of his head. 

By the time he got home — he’d hardly noticed the commute once he’d started drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel — his holiday enthusiasm was in full swing. He dropped his coat by the door, kicked off his shoes, threw the chocolates down on the table — and went straight for the record player. Britain’s best rock flooded the apartment, and in a matter of seconds the weary detective inspector was gone. 

A shoeless, messy-haired punk rock ruffian took his place — slipping across the flat’s smooth floors, and jamming on an air guitar like he was playing live at the Roundhouse. At heart, Greg was a miscreant — everybody knew that. He threw his head back and howled along with the song, leaping into the air over and over again and didn’t give a damn about knocking anything over. 

No one understood how or why he’d ended up working for the Met police, but they suspected that it had a great deal to with his uncanny ability to get inside the heads of vagrants and criminals. Greg had nothing to say on the matter.

Tearing the lid off the box of chocolates, he stuffed two in his mouth in the most unceremonious way possible. These were the fancy kind that were supposed to be nibbled and savoured and eaten with some modicum of delicacy. Greg cheerfully smashed them together, tossed them back, and licked the cream filling out of the palm of his hand. It left him feeling slick and dirty — and he loved it. 

He was grinning from ear to ear when he yanked open the fridge door. Friends or no friends, this was a fucking great way to spend a holiday — or any day, for that matter. He pulled out a beer, chucked the twist-off cap over his shoulder and chugged — reckoning that, even though they had plans, he was having more fun in that one moment than his mates would all evening long. (Of course, the fact that Anderson was spending the evening with his wife guaranteed it, and Greg couldn’t resist a quiet, throaty chuckle at the thought.)

As he wiped his mouth on his sleeve like a heathen, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out, setting his beer on the counter, and jabbed at the obnoxious, little buttons until a text message from his darling Sally Donovan flashed across the screen — inevitably something snarky and victorious. 

‘Asshole stood me up. Be over in 15 w/ pizza.’

Maybe not so victorious. 

Looking over his shoulder, he took in the wave of destruction that he’d caused as he slid from the record player to the refrigerator. He’d hip-checked a stack of papers to the floor, knocked over a lamp and left the cushions from his sofa awry when he leapt up and down during his air guitar solo. The lid to the chocolate box had landed in the sink, over a stack of unwashed dishes, and his belt was sitting on the mantle. Completely ignoring the fact that he, himself, was as much of a mess — with chocolate at the corner of his mouth, beer on his sleeve, and his shirt half-undone — his home was in no fit state for company. 

But he knew Sally, and — more importantly — she knew him. She wouldn’t be in the least bit surprised or put off by his slovenly, sorry state. Hell — she’d probably steal his only tie, wear it as a bandanna, and mosh right along with him. And she was bringing pizza! Greg had been eyeing the leftover Chinese take-out, but suddenly Valentine’s Day was looking even brighter than he’d originally imagined. 

It took him two minutes to send an ‘ok’ back — but at least he managed it. He also managed to trade his stained button-up for a loose football jersey and picked up the lamp that he’d overturned by the time Sally knocked on his door. Well — by the time Sally started kicking in his door. She had two pizzas and a twelve-pack, and no available hands, so knocking was out of the question. 

“Jesus Ch- I’m coming, Sally! You’re gonna break my bloody door!” He vaulted the sofa as he yelled, and slid into the hallway, jerking the door open before Sally could put her foot through it. 

Without hesitation, she pushed everything she was carrying into his arms and pointed down at her feet. “Do you see these shoes?”

He glanced down at her rather dangerous-looking black stilettos. 

“I carried all of that,” she waved her finger threateningly at the beer and pizza boxes, “up those bloody narrow stairs of yours, in these shoes. And the first thing you say to me is not to break your door?”

Greg had the decency to look bashful, at least. “You look beautiful,” he offered, by way of an apology. 

She glared as she stomped past him, heading for his ravaged sofa. It spoke well of their friendship that she didn’t even think to question why it was such a mess. She just kicked her shoes into the corner, propped one of the cushions up against the armrest, and flopped down. 

Greg smiled as he shut the door and carried her ‘gifts’ into the kitchen. “How many necks did you break leaving the restaurant?” He called out, putting the pizza next to the chocolate and sliding the beer into the fridge. “Am I gonna have to book you?” 

Mad as she was, Sally was struggling to hold on to her scowl. “No,” she admitted. “No broken necks. Mostly just whiplash.” She looked up as Greg slid out of the kitchen. 

“Well-deserved whiplash,” he corrected, dropping a piece of chocolate into her hand. 

Her smile broke out in full force. “Thanks, Greg.”

He chuckled, and leaned over the back of the couch to give her a quick kiss on the forehead. “You’re welcome, gorgeous.” Sinking down on his elbows, he glanced back at the kitchen before asking, “What kind of pizza did you get?”

“What do you think?” Sally retorted through a mouthful of chocolate. “Chicken and pineapple for me, sausage and pepperoni for you.” 

Greg faked a swoon. “You goddess,” he groaned, grinning from ear to ear. “Best Valentine’s Day ever.”

Sally fixed him with a hard stare. “That’s sad, Greg.”

He let out a long, exaggerated sigh. “Yeah, you ruined it.”

“Oi!” She grabbed a cushion and whacked him with it. 

Laughing, Greg stumbled backwards, arms raised to defend himself. “You want a beer first, or pizza? Or both?”

“Booze,” Sally answered, almost before he’d finished the question. 

“Booze it is,” he chorused, retreating into the kitchen. 

Sally dropped back down, sinking into the couch cushions. As she curled up, she finally noticed that her phone — buried inside a small clutch dangling from her wrist — was humming urgently at her. She ignored it. She didn’t even have to look to know who was calling — or why — and she just wasn’t interested in her date’s useless excuses. 

Rolling on to her side, she dropped the clutch to the floor and propelled it into the corner with her shoes. Let the jerk call all he wanted. She wouldn’t listen, and she certainly wouldn’t let it ruin her evening. 

Greg came back with two open beers in hand. “To Valentine’s Day?” he asked, handing her a bottle. 

“To Valentine’s Day,” she toasted, grinning.


End file.
